Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
SILAS
I didn’t want to be here.
I told myself I wouldn’t step foot in this room again, that I’d let the dust settle, let the ghosts have it. But now standing in the doorway, I knew the ghosts had never left.
They were waiting.
They were waiting for me.
The study still smelled the same. Leather and whiskey. Smoke clinging to the walls like a lingering threat. It was untouched, frozen in time—apart from the gaps in the book shelves where there were once blood-splattered books and the Persian rug stained with their blood that was now a pile of ash.
The last time I’d seen my father alive, it was in this room. Behind that desk. A glass in his hand, brows furrowed in focus. Unbreakable. Untouchable.
And then he wasn’t.
I couldn’t help but glance down. The blood had been scrubbed from the floor, but still I saw it. The splatter from where my mom had stood, begging…pleading.
Bile rose in the back of my throat.
And now I knew she’d been here.
Our lying goddamn sister.
Angelica.
My fingers curled into fists. My lungs burned, my breath caught between rage and disbelief. She’d stood in this goddamn room. She’d been here when they died, watching it as it happened.
My stomach twisted, a sickness curling deep in my gut. How much did she see exactly? And why the fuck didn’t she fight whoever did this?
I exhaled sharply, forcing the memory down. I wasn’t here for the past. I was here for the truth. But as I stepped deeper into the room, the weight of everything pressed in.
Maybe I wasn’t ready for the truth after all?
I should’ve never stepped into this room.
I knew it the second I crossed the threshold. The second the door clicked shut behind me, sealing me into the past.
But I wasn’t a kid anymore.
I wasn’t thirteen, standing in this same fucking room, asking the wrong goddamn question like the naive fool I’d been.
Las Almas Perdidas.
The memory hit me like gunshot to the chest—sharp, sudden, inescapable.
I’d only said the words once.
Standing right here, just a kid who didn’t know better. My father was at his desk, reviewing something in one of his ledgers, and I—like the arrogant little shit I was—had spoken without thinking.
“What does Las Almas Perdidas mean?”
The shift was instant.
One second, he was flipping through pages. The next, he’d gone completely still. The kind of stillness that made my stomach drop, that made my instincts scream at me to take it back.
I’d never seen my father freeze like that.
Never seen his fingers tighten around a pen like he wanted to break it in half. The silence stretched too long. Long enough for dread to settle deep in my bones.
Then, suddenly— movement .
He slammed the ledger shut. Hard. The sound ricocheted off the walls like a gunshot. Before I could react, before I could breathe, he was grabbing me.
One second, I was standing. The next—my back hit the bookshelves. Pain exploded up my spine. The breath punched out of my lungs as books toppled to the floor beside me.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my ribs aching. “Dad?—”
“Where the fuck did you hear that?”
His voice was razor-sharp, all steel and rage.
I stared up at him, wide-eyes, my thirteen-year-old brain trying to catch up. Trying to understand why the man who’d taught me how to shoot, how to fight, how to survive—was looking at me like I was already dead.
I didn’t answer fast enough. His fingers tightened around the collar of my shirt, twisting the fabric against my throat.
“You don’t speak those words.” His voice was low, cutting. Final. “You don’t ask. You don’t fucking know.”
I forced myself to swallow past the fear clawing up my throat.
And that’s when I saw it.
Not just the rage. Not just the fury.
Fear .
It was buried deep in his eyes, but it was there.
Dante Ares didn’t fear anything.
But this?
This scared the shit out of him.
I should’ve backed down. Should’ve dropped it, let it go. But I was a kid, and I was too damn stubborn to know when to shut up.
“I just heard you say it.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “I didn’t know it was a?—”
“Forget it, Silas.”
His grip tightened one last time. Then just as suddenly, he let go.
I hit the floor with a sharp inhale, sucking in air like I’d been drowning. My father turned away, adjusting his tie like nothing had fucking happened. Like he hadn’t just slammed his son against a bookshelf for asking the wrong question.
He sat down at his desk, picked up his drink, and took a slow sip.
Like the conversation had never happened.
Like I’d never heard the name at all.
But I had.
And I never forgot it.
The memory of that moment ripped through me, clawing at my ribs, leaving something raw and uncontrollable in its wake.
A growl built in my chest, burning hot and violent. I turned toward the desk. The same desk he’d sat behind when he ordered men to live and die. The same desk where he’d…lied to me.
Rage took over before I could stop it.
I slammed my hands down on the wood hard. The force rattled through me, but it wasn’t enough. Not fucking near enough.
With a snarl I grabbed the edge of the desk, lifting the heavy wood until my muscles strained with the effort. The more I lifted the more my rage took over until the tipping point hit, and the desk flew backwards with a crash.
The heavy mahogany beast crashed onto its side, papers exploded into the air, cascading down like pieces of a shattered past. My breathing was harsh, uneven, my pulse roaring in my ears.
And then—something caught my eye.
Beneath the wreckage, near the splintered wood where the desk had been, something small and torn peeked out.
A single fragment of paper. My gut twisted. I crouched down, ignoring the sting in my side, and reached for it.
The edges were rough, jagged—ripped violently from something bigger. A ledger.
My father’s ledger.
I pulled the torn remnant closer. The rest of the room blurring as I focused on what was in my hand. The ink was faded, smudged with time, but the words weren’t completely lost.
And when I read them, my entire fucking world tilted.
It was never meant for him.
The air felt too thick. The walls too close.
I clenched the paper in my fist.
Who?
What?
It wasn’t a full sentence. It wasn’t enough to mean anything. But it meant something.
Something my father had hidden.
Something I wasn’t supposed to find.
My fingers tightened around the scrap, the paper crumpling in my grip. I should’ve shown Theo. Should’ve told Gabe or Jude.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I slid it into my pocket.
No one had to know.
Not yet.
Not until I figured out what the fuck this meant.
And why the hell Angelica knew something I didn’t…
The torn fragment of paper burned in my pocket, but I didn’t look at it again.
I clenched my jaw, pushing down the pain twisting in my ribs.
My body fucking hurt, worse now after slamming the desk, after tearing through my father’s study like a feral animal.
But none of it mattered. Not the goddamn wound in my chest, or the deep ache in my head that made my vision flicker.
What mattered was the knock at the door.
Three sharp raps.
I turned toward the entrance of the study, my pulse still hammering against my chest.
The door creaked open slightly, and one of our men—Marco—stepped halfway in. His expression was tight, unreadable.
“Boss, we’ve got a problem.”
I exhaled sharply, flexing my fingers before curling them into fists. “Of course we did.”
I slid the page deeper into my pocket, making sure it was secure. Then, without another glance at the wreckage of my father’s past, I stepped forward. My hand landed on the edge of the door, and before I crossed the threshold, I pulled it shut behind me.
A coffin sealed. A grave left behind.
The moment I stepped into the hall, the weight of every set of eyes landed on me.
Theo.
Gabe.
Angelica.
They were all there, standing in the dim lighting, watching as I passed. My sister stood there, hair dishevelled from being fucked by my brother, looking like she wanted to speak. Like she wanted to ask what the fuck I had been doing in the study—and what I’d found.
Wouldn’t she like to know.
I didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow.
I walked past her.
Her gaze burned into the side of my face, but I didn’t acknowledge it. Not when my body still ached with the desperate need to put my fucking hands on her for lying to us.
I kept moving.
The sharp pain in my side made my vision blur for half a second. Fuck. My stitches were screaming, the damage from the fight, from the staples she put into me, from the chaos—it was adding up.
But I couldn’t stop.
Not when I caught the look on Marco’s face as he led me outside.
Because one of our men had stopped answering his radio.
I stepped into the open air, the night pressing in. Our men were positioned as usual, walking the perimeter, but there was tension in the way they stood, the way they looked at me.
I scanned them quickly, counting, even through the growing headache pounding behind my eyes.
And then, the sinking feeling in my gut turned cold.
“Rigo’s the one not answering?” I asked flatly.
Marco’s jaw clenched. He pointed toward the far perimeter, past the line of vehicles.
“We’ve been calling him for the last twenty minutes. But he hasn’t checked in.”
That wasn’t like him at all.
Rigo was one of dad’s best men. Loyal to a goddamn fault. There was no way he wouldn’t answer.
I didn’t say anything. I just started walking.
Each step was agony, fire burning through my side, but I forced my body to move.
The further we went, the quieter it became.
The closer I got to something wrong.
I saw the car first.
The shadow of it, half-covered by the darkness.
Then I saw the body.
Slumped against the tire, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His radio was still clipped to his vest, the light blinking like he had tried to call for help but never made it.
His throat was slit.
One clean cut. No struggle. No noise.
Just dead.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Marco’s growl came from behind me.
My stomach twisted as I crouched down, pain screaming in my ribs, but I ignored it. I reached out, my fingers pressing against the blood on his collar. Still warm.
I stared at the wound, at the dark pool of blood spreading like ink across the pavement.
Whoever did this was still close.
The night air felt too thick, pressing in from all sides.
I pushed myself upright, my body protesting the movement, my vision flickering at the edges.
I didn’t care.
I turned to Marco, my voice dangerously low.
“The house isn’t safe. We need to get out of here. Get the men together. We need to leave now.”
“And go where?” Marco stared at me, hanging on my every word.
I felt the weight of this moment.
The concrete blocks pulling me down…pulling all of us down.
Something was coming.
And we were already too late.